Rise of the Champions

by Nicholas Joslin

  “Fight you? I could not. What fool would fight their own prince? Certainly, that would lead to exile,” General Klon retorted, pretending it wasn’t his skill he was worried about.

  “Oh, that issue can be solved. Father, promise me you will not interfere if the general and I duel? This is a personal matter and must be settled,” Prince Mace implored, looking at his stunned father.

  “I…” After a moment’s hesitation, the chief king replied, “I will certainly not. You both know dueling is a sacred right to our clan. If you wish to duel, I will not stop you. If you wish to duel to the death, I will not block the axe as it cleaves your skull.” An almost excited look gleamed on his weathered face.

  More warriors from around their camp came over to watch what was unfolding. Whispers had turned into antagonizing yells, and the sound of it all continued to fuel the fire. Most cheered for General Klon, others cheered for the prince. However, Prince Mace was only focused on the older man standing across the crackling orange fire.

  “Well then. That solves that problem. So, General, my question is this: will you see this through and request a duel? Or will I have to do it for you?” Prince Mace asked, feeling more fired up than he ever had in his life.

  Everyone stared at the general, whose face had slowly lost its confidence. The smallest cracks of disbelief and worry began to undermine his facade of bravery. However, he soon realized this from the looks he received from nearby warriors and stood up a little straighter before speaking.

  “Of course, I will see it through. Prince Garon Mace, I challenge you to a duel!” General Klon yelled, picking up his battleaxe from beside him.

  “And I accept,” Prince Mace replied, drawing both of his swords.

  They waited, knowing they required one more person to begin the duel. It was customary to have a watcher for the duel, a warrior or even a clansperson who acted as a sort of referee. That way, if any banned methods such as magic, poison, or throwing weapons were used, the user could be brought before the chief king.

  “I shall act as your watcher,” a deep female voice said from nearby.

  Prince Mace looked to see one of their two clan Champions, Glora, crossing her muscular arms and watching the two of them. Prince Mace held her in regard, knowing she was immensely tough yet simple enough to not choose a side and let anything slide.

  “I agree,” General Klon affirmed.

  “I agree,” Prince Mace repeated.

  “Then, as your watcher, I will ensure the sanctity of this duel. I need not explain the rules to you two. I shall count down from ten,” Glora began.

  Prince Mace felt a rush of adrenaline as he realized this was happening. General or not, he would defeat Klon. He was sick of being looked upon like an outsider. He was tired of his bloodline being the reason some disliked him. He hated that even thinking differently invited Highrock clanspeople to object to him. Now he would show them he could be as fierce as any of them, as they all hoped he could be.

  As Glora counted down, time slowed to a crawl. Prince Mace watched General Klon, who nervously spun his battleaxe around within his hands. While the prince recognized the man had obvious talent in combat and a fine technique, it seemed his emotions could be used against him. He could tell the general was filled with hatred, perhaps even fear. He would undoubtedly strike hard and fast, as to end the fight before it became too prolonged. This was not only his way, but the way of the Highrock people.

  Prince Mace unhooked his dark red cloak from his back, not wanting it to slow him down. He stared intently at his opponent, time barely creeping along. He waited with bated breath for Glora to finish her countdown.

  “One!” Glora yelled, motioning for all her clanspeople to step back.

  At that moment, General Klon almost leapt from where he was standing. Dust from the ground kicked up as Klon sprinted around the fire towards Prince Mace. The frenzied look in his eyes told the prince he had assumed correctly; the general was going to try his hardest and use all his strength to kill him.

  The harsh sound of metal rung out through the silent air, cutting the rising tension like a knife. General Klon was growling as his battleaxe struck against Prince Mace’s two blades, trying to force his weight upon the prince. However, despite being thin, the prince had more muscle than he appeared.

  Prince Mace forced the battleaxe from off his blades, taking a leap back before the general would attack again. As predicted, he did, leaping forward and swinging his axe from a low position. Prince Mace easily deflected it, letting loose his own attack. But his parry was deflected almost as easily, General Klon quickly recovering and smacking away the prince's swords with his axe.

  Prince Mace quickly deduced the general had speed and power but lacked the technique to combine them together. The general pushed himself harder, unleashing a flurry of blows at the prince. Prince Mace parried or dodged them all until the final strike came. The blade of the battleaxe barely nicked the prince’s arm, drawing blood. While it stung, the prince didn’t flinch or even acknowledge the wound. Instead, his focus was tempered, and he finally went on the attack. Now, he wouldn’t stop until the general was dead.

  Their blades clashed as both stayed on the offensive, neither giving an inch to the other. Neither held back, the general’s brutal axe swings dancing off the dual blades of the prince. Dirt was kicked up as they fought, always rushing back to engage the other directly. The onlookers yelled, some in favor of the general while others in favor of the prince.

  Prince Mace could feel an animalistic sort of energy rising within him, and he tried to suppress it the best he could. His technique relied on a focus and a clear head, which was hard to keep in battle. Not to mention a part of him feared the kind of person he would become if he gave in to primal rage. He had seen such depravity on the battlefield earlier. Despite his challenge to the general, Prince Mace did not want to be a killer. Besting the general in front of their clan would suffice.

  As sweat and his own saliva began to drip into his well-trimmed goatee, the prince felt it hard to concentrate. Luckily, he realized the general was already waning. Through the chaos he spotted his father, whose face was contorted with a strange prideful pleasure. It appeared he would finally do something worthy of his father's attention, and as he thought of their strained relationship, he strangely found himself focusing better.

  He unleashed a flurry of blows onto the general, his fine blades dancing around him in a performance of beautiful death. General Klon was unable to keep up, the blades lightly cutting across his arms. Prince Mace watched as the general leapt back, shocked at his inability to block the blades. He stared at the body language of his opponent, seeing the anger and distress in him. Based on how the general fought, the prince knew what was next. He changed his stance, ready for the assault.

  General Klon let loose a battle cry, riling up the warriors around him. Prince Mace watched intently as the general charged at him with his battleaxe held high. As expected, the prince smiled, having an idea of how to finish this fight.

  General Klon grabbed the axe by both hands and brought it down hard on Prince Mace, who artfully sidestepped. In a moment, the prince managed to disarm the general by forcefully lifting it out of his now weakened grip using one of his swords. Before General Klon even had a chance to react, Prince Mace struck with years of withheld contempt.

  With the fast slash of his sword, Prince Mace slashed through flesh and bone, sending the general’s dominant right hand falling to the torn-up ground beneath them. Not giving any quarter, Prince Mace swung both his blades at the general’s neck, barely stopping in time to slightly draw blood.

  The entire forest was now silent, watching in shock as their general knelt helplessly on the ground, looking as though he were a captive about to be executed. Only the muffled sounds of pain from the general and whispers from onlooking warriors filled the air; not even the king said a word.

  Prince Mace looked over to his father, whose eyes were wide with absolute pleasure. Th
is was the first time the prince had ever seen his father look at him with any sort of pride. And in that moment, he knew exactly what his father wanted him to do. He wanted him to slay the general here, in front of their warriors.

  Prince Mace looked back down at the nearly sobbing general, who was trying to stop his wrist from bleeding out. The prince knew killing the general would send a message that the bloodline was not to be trifled with, let alone himself. As he pressed his blades against his opponent’s throat, knowing what he must do, a sudden wave of emotion overcame him, battling his earlier animalistic rage—as it had in the midst of battle—and he immediately felt disgusted. Prince Mace ripped his swords away in a sudden act of restraint, holding the dripping blades at his side.

  Whispering filled the air and he turned to his father, whose smile had begun to fade. The prince’s display of mercy was not customary in Highrock dueling, and the chief king appeared to be having just as difficult a time reconciling his son’s action as the rest of the warriors.

  “Thank … you,” General Klon whispered, also in a state of shock.

  Prince Mace didn’t respond and walked toward his father. The look of disappointment he was used to had returned to his father’s face, but the prince did not care. He had won in his own way, without any help. But, the battle had unleashed something within him.

  As he stared at his father, the prince noticed his father’s attention divert as he cocked his head and appeared to listen intently to something no one else could hear, staring off into the distance. He didn’t spare a look for his own son.

  The prince walked past his father, refusing to acknowledge him as he fixed his gaze on the dark forest ahead, pain and conflict tearing at his soul. Now that he had left the battle, and though it had been a victory, his mind raced, and he hated it. As he strode off into the darkness, Prince Mace only focused on the battle ahead, knowing it may very well lead to the end of their fighting.

  Chapter 7

  As Chieftain Barod looked over his ever-expanding harbor, he felt the slightest sense of pride emerge. In his old age he began to frequently reflect over his almost thirty years of leading the Narsho people. It wasn’t perfect; he hadn’t gotten them out of war, but it hadn’t been the worst of times ever. Nonetheless, he sought more for his people, and for that reason, he had begun constructing a small fleet of ships over the past year.

  The morning’s mist was beginning to leave, slowly revealing seven large ships and a few smaller ones. He had heard tales of islands and other mysterious places somewhere across the sea from Linta sailors over the years, and he wanted to see these places for himself. He yearned to explore more of Forthoton and hoped he could find something that would aid his people.

  He waved to some passing workers, who were clad in their warmer clothes as they headed towards the harbor to begin the day’s work. He loved his clan, and from what he could tell they loved him. He only wanted peace and prosperity for them but didn’t know how to attain it. He thought perhaps exploration could help them.

  “Good morning, Chieftain!” an old man greeted with a wide smile as he walked past.

  “Good morning, Nort!” Chieftain Barod replied to the man he had known his entire life.

  As the sun slowly emerged through the clouds, the chieftain smiled, knowing it would be a good day. He turned from the harbor and began walking back up the dirt path towards the heart of their village. Chieftain Herold Wooll of the Forud Clan would likely be arriving any moment now, and he wanted to be ready to greet his old friend.

  Given their non-aggression alliance with the Forud, it was common for Narsho and Forud to stay in each other’s villages for prolonged times. While the Forud wouldn’t help the Narsho fight the Highrock, they didn’t trade or interact with the Highrock at all.

  While Chieftain Barod wished his old friend would assist them in their long fight against the Highrock Clan, he knew why he wouldn’t; war was terrible, wasteful, and expensive. Chieftain Barod thought of an old saying the previous chieftain used to tell him: “If the blacksmith was properly compensated for his work, he’d be the richest man in all of Forthoton.” He chuckled, continuing back towards his hall.

  Suddenly, a voice from nearby called out, “Chieftain!”

  Chieftain Barod looked to see their shaman waving to him as he slowly walked over. He had always liked Olaf, but sometimes the man was known to unnecessarily exaggerate the state of things. Still, he was a skilled man of medicine and magic, although Chieftain Barod didn’t like magic and often shut the nasty concept out of his head.

  “Good morning, Olaf!” Chieftain Barod waved, walking in the shaman’s direction.

  As the two approached, he thought he heard Olaf muttering something out loud, too quietly to hear. He couldn’t help but chuckle to himself, knowing they were both old men now. Once it had seemed such a distant concept, and now they lived it every day. He waited until they were only feet from each other before speaking.

  “Olaf, I couldn’t hear you; what was that?” Chieftain Barod said softly as they approached.

  “Chieftain, where is Anna Myhre?” Olaf asked with slight worry in his eyes.

  “She left to lead our men to the ruins, did I not tell you?” Chieftain Barod asked, almost certain he remembered telling the shaman.

  “Oh no. If you did, I didn’t realize it. Oh, my,” Olaf worried.

  “What? Why? Was she not well to travel?” Chieftain Barod asked.

  “Oh, she was well I suppose. Perhaps too well,” Olaf replied, brow furrowed in concern.

  “What do you mean?” Chieftain Barod asked in confusion.

  He watched as Olaf thought for a moment, as if running various scenarios in his head. He wasn’t sure if he should say something or let the shaman think. Fortunately, he spoke again quickly.

  “I believe Anna is … with child,” Olaf whispered, looking around as he did.

  “Anna is pregnant?” Chieftain Barod replied, eyes wide.

  “Yes! I’m almost certain. I did not have a chance to tell her, as I wanted her to relax without concern. Oh, I made a mistake,” Olaf groaned regretfully.

  “Olaf, Olaf, great shaman. You made no mistake,” Chieftain Barod replied, wanting to calm the man. “If there is fault, it is mine.”

  “Chieftain, had I told her then she might not have gone, for fear of the child’s life,” Olaf argued.

  “Or she may have still gone. She isn’t far along, is she?” Chieftain Barod asked.

  “No, no,” Olaf mumbled.

  Chieftain Barod didn’t reply immediately, feeling guilty for asking her to go. He wasn’t sure if she would’ve gone on her own had she known, but because he had asked, she was now on the mission with her unborn child. In his wisdom, he knew he shouldn’t feel guilty or regret it, but he still would. The human mind was never as controllable as logic itself.

  “Well, we must not worry, Olaf. She is a capable scout. And once she returns, we can tell her immediately—together, if you’d like,” Chieftain Barod replied.

  “Thank you, Jonis; I can always count on you,” Olaf said, then realizing his lapse in proper address, amended, “er, chieftain. I only wonder who the father is.”

  Chieftain Barod was surprised to hear his given name spoken, having not heard it in so long. As for the father, he was sure it was Fredrik. However, he would not reveal Anna’s secrets, not even to his old friend.

  “I shall wonder too,” Chieftain Barod replied.

  Before either of the old men spoke again, the chieftain noticed one of his gate guards running down the village path toward him. He already knew what the man would say and tried his best to temporarily forget about Anna. There was nothing he could do about her now, but he could convince the Forud Chieftain what she had seen was a real threat. That was how he could best help her now.

  “Chieftain! Chieftain Wooll and the Forud have arrived!” the guard yelled as he approached, saluting his chieftain.

  “Very good,” Chieftain Barod replied, sending the guard off
.

  “I shall leave you now. When Anna returns, we shall tell her together in private,” Olaf affirmed mainly to himself.

  “Yes, we will. Goodbye, Olaf.”

  The two parted ways, both partially bound by the smallest of secrets. Olaf was a good man, and the worry in the old man’s eyes made the chieftain respect him that much more. His clan was everything to him, and he would do anything for them.

  As he turned to walk to the gate, he knew his people could be helped. With the threat of the horrors out in the world, they would need as much help as they could get. If he wanted to create a peaceful world, he had to convince the Forud Clan to aid them in battle against their common enemy. As he strode up the dirt path, Chieftain Barod felt a swell of purpose, knowing how he may be able to best help his people.

  Chapter 8

  Looking upon the terrible sight with absolute horror, Anna found herself speechless. In fact, none of the other Narsho clansman made a sound. Not even Titus spoke a word, standing silently next to Anna.

  Anna removed her sword from its sheath, staring at the blade, then at the slowly pulsating ground before them. She slowly touched her sword to the sickly purplish, black-colored flesh covering what had once been the forest floor. As she pressed the blade into the fleshy surface, black ooze seeped from the wound for a moment before it slowly began to seal itself.

  As she peered into the distance, it seemed the entire forest ahead of them had become defiled by something. She knew it was probably connected to the Horrors and that the ruins were close by; however, she wasn’t sure she wanted to walk on the strange, seemingly living surface covering the ground.

  “Er, Anna, was this here last time you were here?” Titus asked, slowly touching the ground with his foot.